


Mistakes

by hermione18802



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, James Potter & Lily Evans Potter Live, M/M, based on a novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22739974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermione18802/pseuds/hermione18802
Summary: “It was a mistake. A one off, an accident. It was stupid...but it was also the best night of my life.”When Draco Malfoy gets a knock on the door to his apartment one evening, the last person he expects to find is Harry Potter. Not only because he’s dating Ginevra Weasley, but because he avoids Draco at every chance.A proposition from Harry leaves Draco on his toes, and he must choose between love, a tumbling, rough and rocky love, or apathy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I have tagged this as rape/non-con as there is a scene (very short scene) where a sexual act happens without consent, and with one character under the influence. I totally understand if you choose not to read.
> 
> This fic is based off of Less Than Zero, by Bret Easton Ellis (very good book!) and is therefore non magical!
> 
> If you find this fic familiar, it may be because I had posted this on a past account. I deleted that account a while back, but I’m getting back into fic and I really do like this fic!

**5** **th** **July 1985 -**

  
It was a mistake. A one off, an accident. It was stupid...but it was also the best night of my life. I sit on the window ledge, watching the strangers below, repeating the mantra that  _ it was a mistake, a one off, an accident, a fucking dream...  _ The room stinks of stale cigarettes. His cigarettes. I’ve tried opening the window, but to no avail. The smell of him will never leave; It’s etched within my skin. It’s a beautiful curse and I can’t help aching with desire, feeling the phantom press of his featherlight fingers, touching me all over, touching me everywhere. Stupid, really. It’s been forever since... I wonder what he’s doing right now; if he’s at the pub, slowly downing a beer through those delectable lips...if he’s at home, with someone else. It’s been two months and I still don’t want him to be with someone else. I’m selfish that way. I bring the glass of whiskey I’m cradling to my lips and slowly, ever so delicately, sip from the edge. The burn is what keeps me going, I think. I hear laughter and turn, looking out through the window. There’s a group of teenagers, stumbling through the streets, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Sometimes I forget that I’m not eighteen anymore. I don’t really remember being eighteen. I wonder if he does? I wonder if he remembers how he drove into me, harsh, languid. Does he remember kissing me on his pull-out sofa, throwing paint brushes onto the floor with a muttered  _ ‘ignore them.’  _ His sheets smelled like warm milk and there was condensation in the bathroom; I remember it that clearly. Has he moved the towel that he shoved under his bed? Has he discarded the canvas I accidentally broke? Will he- 

Who the fuck knocks at one in the morning? I tread across the hardwood floor, coming up short behind the door. Surely I didn’t buzz anyone in? I’m not that drunk...am I? 

“Malfoy, open up.” his voice says, drifting in through the cracks in the walls, the vents above my head, the fog in my mind. I say nothing. “We need to talk,” he says again, though it’s more of a growl. I can’t let him in. I can’t do this. It was a mistake. A one off, an accident. It was... 

“Stop banging, you prick!” I hiss, unsure of whether he’ll hear me or not. This has to be the most idiotic decision of my life, the most impulsive, lowly idea I’ve ever had. I pull the latch, unlock, and open the door. “Jesus, I thought you were just going to ignore me,” he says, striding in as if he owns the place, leaving me standing there, gaping, to close the door, to turn back and find him sitting on my window seat. 

“We need to talk.” 

I scoff. “You’ve mentioned.” 

He points to the empty space beside him, ordering me almost. “Yes?” 

He scowls at me, moves from the window seat to the sofa, and throws himself against it as if he’s the one who’s been living in this apartment for seven years. “Would you do me the honour of not being a dick all night and talking with me?” 

I resist the urge to tell him that it’s technically morning, and nod curtly, striding toward the armchair. My my, is my brain running on overdrive right now. 

“Go on then,” I say. I raise my eyebrows, as if daring him to spit it out.

Luckily, he’s never been one to ignore a challenge. “We need to talk.” 

“Harry...” I say softly, but he’s looking past me at the window. “What do we need to talk about?” I ask, on a whim, not really caring for this conversation anymore. 

“Stuff.” He mutters. 

“Right...” 

“I fucked you.” 

I glance over at him, raise an eyebrow, let it drop. Stand and move toward the window, opening it because the room has all of a sudden become too stuffy and I feel a headache coming on. 

“You look ill,” he says when I’ve sat down again, and he grimaces at something unsaid, “you’re ill.”

“No.” I say. He nods, slowly, dragging it out as if he can’t stomach the thought of having an actual conversation with me. 

“You should get something. You look ill.” 

“Harry, stop.” I murmur softly, but he shakes his head and stands, moving toward my kitchenette. “They’re in the bathroom.” I say, and he turns on his heel, walking toward the bathroom. He returns with the bottle of Valium I had in my medicine cabinet. He sits down. He takes one for himself, then passes the bottle to me. “You should take one...” he mutters, and I nod but he isn’t looking. I take one from the bottle, moving toward the kitchen and pouring myself a glass of water. I come back. He takes another two for himself. 

“That’s enough...” I say, and he nods, eyes glassy. We sit in silence for a while, but I’m itching to get away from this awkwardness, so I clear my throat. “You fucked me.” I say, picking up where he started. 

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

He shrugs his shoulders. “Wanna do it again.” 

I lean back against the armchair, stretching out, the sense of calm from the Valium seeping in, though it isn’t enough. 

“You got anything stronger?” he asks, obviously feeling the same. I nod. I drift out of the lounge, toward my bedroom, weaving into my en suite and picking up a bottle of Librium. When I return to the living room, Harry has sprawled himself across the sofa. I take one and chuck the bottle at him. 

“Harry.” 

He sits up and takes two, and I shake my head slyly, and he lays spread-eagled on the sofa again, arms above his head, and I can just about see a patch of skin toward the bottom of his shirt, and right now I’d give anything to have him naked and on top of me. 

“I wanna do it again...” he whispers, bringing me out of my reverie. 

“Right.” 

“Anything else to say?” he asks, lifting his head slightly. 

“Is that why you’re here?” 

He ponders it, and then shrugs, sitting up and facing away from me. “Guess so.” 

I nod but I don’t move and neither does he, and it feels like a lifetime before either of us speak again. Feels like years have passed, or drifted away, and perhaps I’m back in his art studio apartment, being fucked on sheets that smell soft and clean and golden...though I’m not sure that things  _ can  _ smell golden. “Why now?” I ask. Harry shrugs. 

“Felt like it.” 

“Yeah...” I don’t want to tell him how his jaw looks in the light, and I don’t want him to know that I’ve been thinking about how he dug his fingers into my thighs, how he manoeuvred me around his whole apartment, fucking me up against anything and everything, and I don’t want him to know that I like the colour of his eyes, or that I’ve studied him at bars before, the way he drinks, how his laugh sounds, how his Adam’s apple bobs and- 

“Down low, though. I have a girlfriend.” I would’ve choked had I been eating or drinking, but instead I just splutter on thin air, and then feel quite a bit offended. 

“That’s cheating.”

“Suppose it is,” he says, with no regard to how his  _ ‘girlfriend’  _ may feel. 

“I thought you were gay...” 

Harry snorts and picks the bottle of Librium up off the table, but I lean forward and swipe it from his hand, and then he just glares. 

“I am.” 

I frown. “But you’ve got a girlfriend...” 

“And a social appearance to upkeep. Don’t be a twat, you know how it is.” 

I think about James and Lily Potter, about the parties I’ve seen them at, about all the shit Mother would tell me about Lily before going off to luncheon with her and acting like her best friend. I think about James and his golf and his residencies, and the plaza he works at and the women I’ve seen him with, and the way Lily seems to thirst over him, even then. I think about my own parents. I shudder and turn my attention back to the conversation at hand. 

“How long have you lived in L.A?” I ask, nonchalantly, aching to pour myself another whiskey and sit on my window seat...alone. 

“About as long as you. Look,” he starts. I turn toward him. 

“Hmm?” 

He just faces me for a little while, and again I feel time passing, and I don’t really think I care. He says nothing, so I hum a bit, draw my knees up to my chest, tilt my head until his face looks funny. I feel drowsy and tired, and I think of my bedsheets and how I’d like to sleep in them forever, but also how I’d like him to pin me down and fuck me long and languorous against them.

“You up for this or not?” he says finally, and I have to calm myself a little more, my heart pounding from thoughts of him driving into me, hard and fast and- 

“You listening?” 

I shake my head. He glares. 

“You up for this or not?” he asks again. 

“What’s in it for me?” I ask. Harry laughs as if I’m ridiculous. 

“You get a better fuck than those twats at the Crescent.” 

I laugh a little too. He’s right...about the pricks at the Crescent. 

“When?” I ask, mind not wanting to believe I’m doing this, mind also shutting off slowly. 

“Every Thursday night.” 

I smirk. “I meant what time?” 

“Morning. One until four.” 

I think this over, and I think about the plans I’ve made with Blaise to go to Spago tomorrow...and with Pansy at the Polo Lounge...and with my Father who wants to go to Crescent, even though it is as shitty as Harry described it to be, and I’d quite rather die. 

“Sure.” 

Harry nods and leans toward the Valium that’s still in reach, but I make eye contact with him and he scowls. 

“Haven’t you had enough?” 

“Yeah,” he says, and then he stands up and moves toward the kitchen. 

“Where are you going?” I ask, trotting after him like some hyped-shit dog. 

“Home?” 

I feel my cheeks begin to flush and I nod, frantically, murmuring things that sound like “Sure, yeah, right,” to my own ears. 

“Next Thursday then. Here.” He says, opening the front door and stepping out. 

“Right...” I say, and then he nods. I watch as he strides away, fastening up and pulling his hood over his head to try and seem as if he wasn’t here at all. I’m his dirty secret, and for some reason that doesn’t bother me as much as it should, because at least I’ve got him in some way, whether it be crap or not. When I look up, dragging my eyes from my ugly grey lining carpeting, Harry is gone, and the wind from outside is growling through my apartment, so I shut my door, but it’s still happening and I realise it’s because the window is open, so I close it and lay on the sofa where Harry had been, and I lower my hand to touch myself as I think of our promise for next Thursday, and scary though it may be, this doesn’t seem like much of a mistake anymore. 

**  
6** **th** **July 1985 –**

I’m sitting in Spago with Blaise. He’s wearing sunglasses, though we’re inside and it isn’t sunny at all and I find it quite ridiculous. The waiter has walked past our table multiple times, as if we’re invisible, and I’m just becoming frustrated when Blaise finally looks up from the menu he’s been lusting over for the past thirty minutes. 

“Why haven’t you ordered?” he asks, and I feel like an idiot, but I shrug. 

“Not hungry.” 

“Suit yourself...” he mutters, and he holds his arm up, waving for the waiter who comes instantly. “Two Margaritas and a Gin.” He says, not taking his eyes off of the menu until the guy has gone. 

“I don’t like Margaritas.” I say. Blaise looks up at me through half-lidded eyes and glares. 

“You’ll drink it.” 

I nod and say nothing, and the waiter comes over with two Gins and one Margarita, and I can almost feel Blaise’s blood boiling, and I tune the argument out and try to focus on the music that’s playing. It’s that  Stevie Nicks girl. I met her at one of Father’s parties years ago, but she was doing coke for the whole of LA, so she probably wouldn’t remember me.  _ ‘When the rain washes you clean you’ll know, you will know,’  _ I try to listen to the song but I can hear Blaise tapping the table angrily, and when I look up, the waiter almost looks tearful. 

“We’re leaving.” Blaise says, standing, and I stand too and follow, giving the waiter a sympathetic look. 

“Fucking dickhead.” Blaise mutters and I grumble something non-committal and follow as Blaise gets into his car. I go to get in the passenger side, and he glares at me. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

I scowl at him. “You really going to leave me here?” 

He shrugs and starts the engine and leaves and I storm back into Spago, striding to the back and eyeing the phone. I dial Pansy’s number, but she doesn’t pick up. I dial Father but he picks up and then hangs up. Finally I call Mother, and she promises to come and pick me up straight away, and for once I feel completely deflated as she pulls up in the Porsche and flings the door open, sunglasses hiding her eyes. I get in, and she plays Stevie Nicks the whole way home, making flippant conversation about how Stevie is holding a party at Crescent next Monday, which I know is horse shit because Stevie has way too much fucking money to resort to  _ Crescent _ , and how I should apologise to Blaise when I next see him which I think is the most ridiculous idea on the planet. I don’t join the conversation and instead I think about next Thursday and I think about Harry’s biceps and I take a risk. 

“Have you seen Lily Potter recently?” I ask. 

Mother lets her sunglasses slip down her nose and faces me for a moment. 

“Why ever are you interested in her? Isn’t she a little old for you, darling?” 

I groan and kick my feet up on the dashboard. 

“I don’t want to fuck her, Mother. I was just intrigued.” 

Mother nods, pushes her sunglasses back up her nose, focuses on the road for a second, turns back to me. 

“Well, no. She and James are in Hawaii. They get back in tomorrow.” 

“What about the son?” I ask, seconds away from blurting Harry’s name and shouting  _ ‘Yeah, I’m gay Mother, and Harry Potter fucked me so good and wants to do it every week, and I said yes.’  _

“Oh, I don’t know, Draco. Why ask silly questions? Just...phone that girl who seems to know everyone.” 

“By that girl, you mean Pansy.” 

“Perhaps.” Mother says distastefully, and we spend the rest of the journey in silence. It’s somehow nice to be in company without talking, but it’s also fucking lonely and I want to kill myself. 

“Do you want me to drop you at your own apartment?” Mother asks. I nod and she says, “Right...” and then she keeps driving and we ignore each other once more.   
  


**7** **th** **July 1985 –**

I swear this place gets more disgusting every time we visit. We’re sat in the Polo Lounge. We’re not talking. Not until- “This place is disgusting.” Pansy says, as if she ripped the thought from my mind. 

“Yeah.” 

“You look thin. You should eat.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Draco, are you even fucking listening to me?” 

“Hmm?” 

Pansy shakes her head and downs the rest of her drink; it’s clear and bubbly but I don’t know what it was. 

“It gets cold in France at this time of year.” 

I look up at her. Her face is devoid of emotion and she looks at me as if I’m as unappealing as the upholstery on the furniture. 

“Does it?” 

She nods. “Yes. Mother tells me. She says, ‘Pansy, it gets cold in France at this time of year.’” 

“Right...” I say, and she scowls. 

“Don’t be rude,” she says. 

“Well, I’m not planning on visiting France anytime soon. Happy?” 

“You look fucked” she says, and I splutter on thin air, trying to shake the thought of Harry’s cock from my mind. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Ill, Draco. Unwell. Sick. Fucked.” 

“Oh,” I say, and Pansy lifts her arm and waves to the waiter the way Blaise had. She orders us drinks, without consulting with me, but she knows I’ll drink whatever. 

“Who are you fucking?” 

“What?” I ask, voice lowered as the waiter leaves. 

“Well, you’re hiding the fact that you’re gay from your parents, but you keep drifting off into contemptible silence, so either you’re fucking someone, or someone is fucking you.” 

“I don’t top, Pansy.” 

“So who’s putting their cock in you?” 

“Shh!” I hiss, watching her mouth stretch into a smirk. “No one.” 

She rolls her eyes and the waiter returns with the drinks. There’s two shots. He puts them on the table, leaves, and the two of us down them. 

“I’ll get it out of you,” she mutters, sprawling herself out on the large sofa we’re occupying. 

“No one is fucking me.” I say, but my voice cracks and I watch her smirk at me. 

“You’re a bitch.” 

“A smart bitch, though.” 

“Yeah.” 

Pansy sits up and crosses her legs, frowning. She claps her hands in front of my face. “What the fuck is up with you?” 

“Nothing, you nosy bitch.” 

She scowls and then breaks out into laughter, pulling back. Soon enough I’m laughing too and we’re both draping ourselves over the sofa, oblivious to the eyes judging us, laughing about nothing and everything and it feels fucking perfect. For just a minute.   
  


**8** **th** **July 1985 –**

Father picks me up in the limousine, face emotionless. I slide in and sit silently until he offers a drink and I say yes. He pours me something I don’t know the name of, but it’s alcohol and I don’t give a shit about anything else. 

“What’s the deal with Potter?” 

If it weren’t for fear that my Father would make me pay for the entire re-doing of the upholstery, I’d have spit my drink out. 

“Excuse me?” 

He scowls and slides a tape in the stereo. I don’t know what it is, but it’s boring as fuck and I can’t even zone out and focus on the words because they’re so shitty. 

“Narcissa tells me you were inquiring about Lily Potter. Why?” 

I wipe at my mouth, remembering I didn’t spit the drink out, and turn to face him. “Just interested, okay?” I feel a little calmer. 

“You look terrible. I’m sure that girl told you so. Why haven’t you cleaned up?” 

“I don’t look that bad...” 

“Yes you do.” 

I scowl but Father is replacing the tape and then we’re pulling over, the rest of my drink untouched. We get out of the limousine and I instantly want to throw up. We’re at Crescent, but standing waiting for us, is James Potter. And his son. Harry. The bastard is smiling as if he isn’t planning on sticking his cock up my arse in a week. His outfit looks nice, as does James’ who somehow looks to be our age. My Father must feel some sort of jealousy. Looking up at his face, I deem my suspicions correct. 

“Lucius!” James says, moving forward to shake my Father’s hand. 

Harry moves forward to grab my hand and shake it, but he pulls me in and slyly whispers, “Hope you’re ready for me to pound you into oblivion next week.” 

It sends shivers down my spine and I want to punch him for it, but he’s also wearing a heady cologne that reminds me of his studio apartment and how he lifted my legs, spread my thighs, kissed me everywhere as if I were a new blank canvas and he were about to paint a masterpiece. I remember how he drove into me the first time that night, and I remember all the places he took me; on the sofa, on the bed, in the shower, on the kitchen counter, up against the door...fuck, there must have been more. 

“Draco...when you’re finished daydreaming.” Father says, and I realise I’ve been stood silently, thinking of Harry’s cock for almost five minutes. 

“Apologies, Father.” 

Harry smirks as we walk through the sex-scented halls of Crescent, his fingers brushing against mine lightly. I scowl, thinking of the article I read of him this morning, his gorgeous face photographed tongue-fucking that red-head he’s dating. Bitch. 

We’re seated and Father starts the conversation, but I’m not really listening because I’m trying so hard to ignore Harry’s face. 

“You’re really out of it, hey Draco?” I look up to find James Potter staring at me, seemingly concerned. 

“Excuse me, for a moment.” I say, pushing my chair backward, standing, and stumbling toward the back . I eye the men’s room and a pack of guys huddling outside of the door. 

“What is the strongest shit you’ve got and how much?” I ask, watching as they turn their gaze to me. One of them holds a little bag up, some powder or other sitting lightly at the bottom. 

“$650.” He grunts.

I nod and pull $700 out of my jacket pocket, handing it over and mumbling a quick “Keep the rest” as I take the bag and push through to the men’s room. The stalls are dirty and I don’t really want to cram myself in there, but I’d rather not have others barge in and find me snorting coke like a madman. Like Harry said that evening, we have reputations to uphold. I squeeze into the stall and open the bag, pouring a small amount on the ledge above the toilet, pulling an old credit card from my pocket, the only thing to hand, and pushing it into lines. The door opens, and I carry on, unfussed, until a voice calls out. 

“Draco, your Father wants you.” Harry says, voice bored. 

“Hold on,” I hiss, straightening the lines up and leaning down. 

I can hear Harry getting closer to the stall. I do the two lines, seal the bag, put it and the credit card back into my pocket, open the stall door. 

“Such a druggie.” Harry says, pushing me back into the stall and locking the door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl, watching as Harry smirks and pushes his hands down toward my crotch. 

“Why not break a couple of rules? Besides, who’s going to find us in here?” I struggle against him, but not much because I’m just aching for it by now. 

“Coroners. They’ll find your body because I’ll have killed you.” 

He chuckles. “Gorgeous, smart, funny too...What else don’t I know about you?” 

I want to say  _ “Fucking tonnes because I’m not just a ‘good shag’ as you treat me to be”  _ but I swallow it down and moan as he latches his mouth onto my neck. 

“Harry,” I groan, his palm moving hard and fast against my cock through my trousers. He sits me on the toilet lid, unbuckling his belt and throwing his trousers down. 

“Come on then,” he says, nodding at his raging hard on. 

I lean forward and tease my mouth against the head, and then he’s moaning and I’m feeling wanted, and I’m pushing further forward, letting his cock slowly breach my mouth over and over again. I’m tasting the pre-come and I’m doing things with my tongue I didn’t even know I was capable of. He seems to like it, because he’s moaning and grunting, and then I feel hands tangling in my hair and he’s driving forward, down my throat, not letting me come up for air for at least thirty seconds. Then he does, and he repeats this multiple times until he’s coming down my throat, holding me in place, forcing me to swallow. 

“Yeah. Bet you loved that, didn’t you?” 

I don’t think I say anything but I whimper and instantly feel ridiculous. 

Harry pulls his trousers up and does his belt, then smirks and opens the stall door, leaving me there with spit and come drying against my cheeks as he strolls back toward our table. I clean up quickly, anger deflating my once contemptible erection, and straighten myself out, striding back toward the table with my head held as high as it possibly can be. 

“Draco, please stop doing drugs in places like this. A line or two at your own home, I don’t care, but not out in public.” Father says when I reach the table. 

Harry and James are gone, and the bill is lying in the centre, half already paid for by James. His son may be a prick (with a fucking huge one, too) but at least there’s some kindness from the eldest Potter. 

“Come on,” Father says, standing and striding through the halls once more. When we’re outside, the limousine pulls up and we get in. 

“Where will I be dropping the two of you?” the chauffeur asks. Father pulls a disappointed face, before it settles back to emotionless, and starts to speak. 

“I’ll be heading home. You can drop Draco at his own apartment,” he says, and the chauffeur nods, looking to me. 

I nod curtly, and then the chauffeur is getting into the front of the limo, and then we’re driving off. I didn’t expect this turnout, but I can’t say I’m particularly upset about it. I think about Harry fucking me the whole way home, and when I’m alone in the apartment, I take a couple Librium, everything fading to black. It’s okay for a while.   
  


**14** **th** **July 1985 –**

I’ve been walking around my apartment all morning as if dead. A ghost of my past self, or something fucking stupid like that. I move toward the window seat and light a cigarette, even though the window is closed. I take a drag and instantly my head feels better. It’s Wednesday. Tomorrow...technically Friday morning, Harry will be fucking me. I have had that thought in my brain all day so far. I feel quite fatigued, but the more I take drags from the cigarette, the lighter my head becomes. By early afternoon, I’ve had three cigarettes, taken more coke than I ever have in one day, and probably downed a whole bottle of whiskey, as well as the Valium and Librium. I feel dead again, and I don’t know what to do. I lay on my back, on the sofa, picturing Harry in his apartment. I can see raindrops slowly peeling against the windows and I can see paint on everything because he’s a fucking messy idiot who gets paint everywhere. I can picture the mural in his lounge and his little signature in his terrible handwriting toward the bottom, and I can almost feel the phantom touch of the cold marble kitchen counter top that he fucked me on. I can see his bathroom, his crappy shower with a curtain that was coming apart, and a shower head that stopped every five minutes. I can see Harry nonchalantly striding into his bedroom, if you could even call it that, and lounging on his bed, reading the  _ Times  _ or  _ Vogue  _ or something else ridiculous and finding himself a new  _ ‘muse’  _ and spending hours worshipping their naked figure, before placing the canvas down and beginning to paint the contours of their body. It’s so scarily dangerous how much I wish that were me. I look down and see my hand running up and down my shaft. I hadn’t even realised I was touching myself, but in all honesty, my cock isn’t really interested either. I stroll into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich but then I just leave it on the counter because the thought of eating it makes me feel sick. I sit back down on the sofa, do another line of coke, take another Librium, swallow another glass of water, flip through an old magazine from my coffee table, lay down, picture Harry kissing me everywhere and telling me he loves me, fall asleep.   
  


**15** **th** **July 1985 –**

Perhaps it’s the coke fucking with my head, or maybe it’s just my fucking head in general, but I swear I have never been this desperate for a man’s dick before. I don’t know what it is about Potter, but there’s something alright. It’s 10pm and I keep checking my watch. Every. Five. Minutes. I’ve read through every magazine I can find in my apartment, and I don’t want to read a book because the small print hurts my eyes when I do coke. So I sit, and I sit and I sit. The phone rings, and I move towards it slowly, dispassionately, emotionless. 

“Hello?” I ask, and I hear a cough before the guy on the other end of the line speaks. 

“Change of plan,” I can hear my breath hitch, so he must hear it too, “can you come to mine instead of me coming to yours?” 

I let out a sigh, a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, and nod though he can’t see me. 

“Yeah.” 

“Was that a yes?” he asks, obviously drunk, probably high too. 

“Harry...” I murmur softly, just wanting to hear him speak. 

“What? Babe, stop, I’m on the phone.” 

Instantly I feel hurt, for reasons I’d rather not decipher. I can hear the annoying voice of the girl in the background. She’s probably begging to suck his cock, but he probably won’t hold her hair the way he held mine, and there’s no way he’ll fuck her mouth, nor any other part of her how he does me. With me, it’s special. I can tell.

“You there?” he asks, voice seeming impatient. I nod again. He can’t see me. 

“Yours,” I say. 

He grunts. “Same time then?” he asks, as though he set the whole proposal up. 

His breath is stuttering so the bitch must be doing something. 

“Sure.” I say. 

“You there?” he asks again, and I’m quite tired of this now. 

“No.” I say, and I hang up, putting the phone down and wandering back over to the sofa, doing another line of coke, wondering when he’ll kick her out. I’ve chosen an outfit already. It’s midnight. I can still hear his breath stuttering. I try to focus on how nicely he’ll fuck me tonight. How hard he’ll go, probably so that I can’t sit down for a month; The man doesn’t hold back. I take a Valium from the bottle, swallow it back with a glass of water, pour myself a whiskey, get dressed, sit and wait until half past. Time just can’t go quick enough.   
  


**16** **th** **July 1985 -**

I’m in the car, driving over to Harry’s place, feeling itchy and I don’t know if it’s the drugs or worry that the red-head might still be there. Oh God, maybe he wants to embarrass me in front of an audience? No, he still fucked me. That would still leave him in some kind of shit. LA looks dead, probably because it’s so late, and all the music on the radio is shit. They need to fix the street-lights, because half of the lane I’m in is drafted in shadow. I think of his apartment...I think of him. Has he gone to the gym recently with that red-headed buffoon he calls a best friend? Has he waited to shower until he’s home...soaping himself up, treading water droplets across his hardwood floors and- I swerve out of the way of another car, whose driver shouts “Faggot!” out of the window, flipping me off. This time, I focus my attention back on the road. I’m driving for what feels like forever until I can see his Father’s plaza, and I know that I’m close. 

Pulling up outside of his apartment, I can already smell the foggy air that drifts through his halls, picture the mural, feel his touch. I get out of the car, lock it, and make my way toward the door. I press the button, and static greets me until his voice grunts 

“Who is it?”

“Me.” I say. He buzzes me in, and the walk up the stairs honestly feels like the longest one of my life. His door is still ugly as fuck; the paint is peeling. I knock lightly, but there’s no answer, so I knock again, harder, and the door is swung wide open, his beautiful...everything stood before me.

“Right on time,” he says, stepping back to let me through the threshold and closing the door behind me. 

“You look good,” he says, and I try not to let flush flow through my cheeks. 

“You too,” I say, and he smirks, grabbing my hand and leading me toward his bedroom. 

He sits on the edge of his bed, claps his hands against his thighs, watches as I move forward and straddle him. He starts placing kisses up my neck, humming sweetly as I bare the skin to him. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he mumbles against my skin, and I start scratching at his bare chest, clawing as if it’s a lifeline. He smiles, pushes my hands away, helps me undo the buttons on my shirt, lets his hands fly toward my crotch.

He leans in, so so close, the soft pillow of his bottom lip just barely brushing my ear, and whispers, “I am going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week...” 

“Yes,” I breathe. 

He stands me up and pulls at my belt, leaning in, lips coming so close to mine and then he’s kissing me. His lips feel paper thin, merging with my own, feather light touches against my jaw, then back up to my mouth, and he pushes forward with his tongue, probing me. I feel it and moan, lightly, opening up for him, and then he’s kissing me slow and languid and beautiful and I feel angelic because no one should kiss as good as this. He’s pulling at my trousers now, belt completely discarded in the corner of the room, and I’m trying to grab at his bare shoulders as he kisses and sucks my neck again, because my legs are going to give out sooner or later. My trousers are gone, and Harry turns us, manoeuvres us, throws me down against his mattress, ripping his own pyjamas off, baring the whole canvas of his beautiful golden skin, all for me, and then he’s coming closer and I can barely breathe because he looks so fucking good.

“So good, baby.” He’s grunting, over and over, as he begins to place kisses all over my body, everywhere. My chest, the scars from the dealers, my thighs, the places my Father picked apart because they weren’t strong enough, my temples, forearms, ankles, legs, calves, knees, hip bone, stomach and back, back to my thighs whilst my breath seems to be decaying slowly but steadily. 

“Harry...” I moan softly, when his kiss on my thigh edges up ever so delicately. He moves forward, spreads my legs, and I don’t know if it’s the Valium, Librium, coke from earlier, but I feel kind of like I’m not here at all, like I’m in purgatory or something because what he’s doing is heaven and hell all together and he should most definitely be punished for this but- 

“Harry!” I moan, feeling his lips gently brush across the head of my cock, and then he’s licking a stripe from the base up and I think I’m dying from the pleasure of it all. 

“Please,” I beg, seeing him smirk and then he’s wrapping his lips around it and going down, slowly, languorous, and I literally think I might die. 

I don’t know what I’m saying or doing but he’s bobbing up and down, letting me thread my fingers through his unruly black hair, letting me control the pace and I can feel the tight wet heat of his mouth with every fibre of my being as he gets faster, taking me all the way down and staying there for at least thirty seconds, the way I had done for him in the crappy bathroom stall at the Crescent, and then 

when I feel like I could explode from the pleasure, he’s pulling off and smirking at me again, and I’m moaning something throaty and deep, something uncontained. 

“You’re going to cum from my cock, okay baby?” he asks, though it’s no question, really. I nod and hiss as he pushes my legs further apart than they’re meant to go. The bastard just smiles.

“Have you thought about me?” he asks, lowering his body until he’s resting on his elbows, lying between my legs, his mouth ever so close to my cock that I feel like screaming. 

“I bet you lounge around at home, probably touching yourself, thinking of my cock...dreaming of how I’ll pound into you, slowly, dragging the pleasure out, maybe spank you if you get naughty...perhaps.” 

“Harry!” I whimper, and he smirks again, so I wriggle my legs, teasing him, daring him. 

“Now, we can’t have that, can we? Stay still.” He orders, holding my legs out, dropping his mouth to where I think will be my cock, but getting lower until he reaches my hole. I feel him smile against the privacy of it, and then his tongue darts out and he’s licking me, rimming me, killing me softly with his mouth. I almost want to pass out, because this is an amount of pleasure I feel unable to cope with, but then I feel his tongue probing, pushing, entering my hole and I swear I might have screamed.

“Oh!” I gasp, hands wandering down and fixing in his hair again, stronger this time, trying with all my might to get him to stay still, the same way I am. 

“Keep doing that, just that...” I moan, Harry’s tongue pushing further and further in until I’m positively wet and dripping, flailing at the need rising within my stomach. I watch as Harry moves away, whining slightly, and see him move toward the chest of drawers, pulling out a small clear bottle. He pours some of the gooey liquid out, rubs it between his fingers, then slathers it over his cock which is relatively huge with how hard it is right now. I whine again. 

“Calm down, baby.” Harry moves toward me, kneels, lines himself up, pushes and I feel the burn and the pain and the pleasure and he’s driving forward, pounding into me, and I think there’s music playing, because I can hear something, so I try focusing on that but he keeps pulling me further away with each harsh thrust. 

“Uhh, Harry, uhh!” I moan and whimper as he drives forward and Harry starts to grunt and I feel like we’ve got a good rhythm going here. 

“You like that baby?” he asks with a particularly harsh thrust forward. 

“Uhh!” I reply, unable to form a coherent sentence as he keeps moving. His cock pounds and all of a sudden he hits something within me, and I cry out. 

“Harry! Don’t stop, don’t stop!” I pant, moaning as he jabs at my prostate over and over, my arse now positively dripping spit and lube. 

“Please!” I cry, and Harry leans down, wrapping his hand around my cock, stroking with fast motions, matching the rhythm he’s pounding into me. And then on a scream, where I think I say his name, I’m coming and Harry keeps going until he too grunts and stills inside me. 

We’re both panting, and Harry drops on top of me, moving to spoon behind me, my back flush against his chest, as he slips from my body. He’s kissing the nape of my neck ever so gently and I’m just making non-committal humming sounds. 

“Nice...” I whisper, and his hand moves to grip my body, moves to my waist. 

We lay like that for a while, and soon enough I hear the steady sound of his even breathing, so I turn in his arms to face him, snuggling myself against him because I’m cold, and maybe I just want comfort. I sit up after a while, legs cramping, and look around the room. Light is pouring in through the blinds, which I notice are broken once I finally rub my eyes, but it’s early light, just a touch of sun, barely golden, probably still as blue as murky river water. LA always looks pretty at this time of morning. Harry’s sheets are tangled between the two of us, and they do feel comforting, and I can see a pile of canvases on the floor in the corner, and a wad of cash on the top of his chest of drawers. There’s paint on most everything and on the edge of the back wall, there’s a small yellow smiley face with some signatures beside it. A plate of cold, moulding toast on the floor to the left, the sound of an Amtrak train trolling along through the city, probably headed to Portland or something at this hour, the warm scent of sex and the smell of Harry and his black ridiculous looking hair fanned out on his pillow, a pillow that looks devoid of feathers completely, and I can hear the music now. I listen to the words and the remember that I know the sound of this song, and I hum along, trying to remember who it is, and then I remember that it’s the Cocteau Twins and I think of the tape I have and my Walkman at home, and I think about my apartment, and Mother and Father, Pansy and Blaise and I wonder if the Polo Lounge is still as disgusting, and when I turn to the side, I find Harry smiling at me, his eyes barely open. 

“What?” I ask, keeping my face emotionless. He sits up, smiles and then sighs.

“You need to leave,” he says, smiling still, and I feel my mouth go slack. 

“Sorry?” He taps his wrist, even though there’s no watch there at all. 

“Past four, you’ve got to go.” 

I sit and wait, thinking this is all a joke, but then he stays smiling like a dickhead at me, and I realise he’s being serious. 

“Yeah,” I say, standing and reaching for my clothes, pulling them on slowly. He says nothing, just keeps sighing. 

Once I’m completely dressed, I make to move out of the room, but he catches my arm. 

“We on for next week?” he asks. I see something in his eyes, and I don’t know what it is, but I force a smile. 

“Yes,” I say, even though I’ve already decided that I won’t be coming back. I can’t keep making mistakes. I move toward the door, shaking his grip off, and exit the room, leaving him there, sighing. I’m about to close his bedroom door, standing on the threshold, and I watch him, and I want him.

“Harry...” I murmur, quiet enough that I hope he can’t hear me. He doesn’t. 

I shut the door, saying nothing, and move through his small studio apartment toward the door. I take one look around the whole place, and then I open the door, and then I leave.   
  


**10** **th** **August 1985 –**

“So he fucked you, then you left?” Pansy asks. 

We’re in Spago. Blaise is sat beside Pansy, holding her hand, eyes trained on the menu, ignoring us. 

“Yeah..” 

“What a fucking cop-out.” she mutters, and I scowl at her. 

“It doesn’t matter, it’s over with. I never went back.”

Pansy’s mouth widens into an O and she looks at me with raised eyebrows. 

“You said it was one of the best fucks of your life?” she asks, dropping Blaise’s hand to reach for her drink; He doesn’t seem to care. 

“It was, but I’m not a rent-boy, Pans. He can get that anywhere. I was never offering myself up for him.” She nods slowly. 

“You never went back?” 

“No, Pansy. Jesus, are you stoned?” 

She shrugs, though she looks kind of hurt and I feel instantly guilty. 

“Curious.” She says.

I sigh. “I never went back.” 

She takes Blaise’s hand again but he slaps it away. Pansy looks down for a minute, then focuses her attention back on me. 

“He never contacted you after?” 

I shake my head. “I think he tried to set up double luncheons with our Fathers again, but I told Mother that Milly was in San Francisco for a while and wanted me to go out there, so I took the train and went.” 

“You took a train?” Pansy asks, smiling when I nod. 

“And you went to San Francisco?” 

“Yes, Pansy.” 

She shrugs again and calls the waiter over, and then she orders three Margaritas and slides her sunglasses back onto her face, and Blaise stands up and leaves to go to the back of the restaurant, muttering something about needing the phone for a business call. 

Pansy looks at me again. I look at Pansy. 

“You’re stoned,” I say, and she giggles and nods. 

“Was Milly actually there?” she asks after a minute of silence, smiling when the waiter returns with the drinks. 

“Thank you,” she says, pulling him in close and slipping a fifty into his jeans pocket. 

“Yeah.” I say, and Pansy turns her head, interested. 

“She was?” 

I nod. 

“Did she seem okay?” she asks, and I pull a face, of confusion probably. 

“Why?” I ask. 

“Last I heard, she was pregnant.” 

I raise my eyebrows, reach for the Margarita, sit back and shake my head. 

“Didn’t look very pregnant,” I say, then, after taking a sip, “When did you hear this?” 

Pansy downs her drink in one. “Few months ago.” 

“Well, she didn’t seem pregnant to me.” 

Pansy giggles. “So you’ve said.” 

“She’s throwing a party.” I say, and Pansy nods, uninterested. 

“When?” I think it over in my head. 

“The 18 th .” 

“You going?” she asks. She looks up at me, and I look back to try and see Blaise, but he’s out of view. 

“You?” 

“I will if you will,” she says, and I nod and tell her okay. 

“Is everyone going?” she asks, and by everyone, Pansy means everyone she classes important. 

“Milly, Daphne, Theo, you now, Blaise if he wants to, me...I think Daph’s bringing her little sister.” I shrug. Pansy makes a face of distaste. 

“How old’s the sister?” 

I smirk. “Year below us.” 

Pansy returns the expression. “Oh...Astoria? Is that her name?” I nod. 

“Yeah.” 

“Right...” she says. Blaise returns after mine and Pansy’s sixth drink, and we’re giggling and laughing like school girls as he scowls at us. 

“You’re pathetic, getting her drunk.” Blaise says, glaring at me, then nodding to Pansy beside him who is slumped over in her chair, looking at her hair. 

“I didn’t ‘get her drunk’, you bastard. She ordered them and we...we drank them.” I say, punctuating the last bit with a laugh. 

“We’re leaving.” Blaise says, grabbing Pansy’s arm. 

“Baby, we have to pay and drop Draco home.” Pansy murmurs to Blaise, and he glares at me again, dropping a wad of cash onto the table and ushering us out. 

“In the car, both of you.” He orders, and Pansy goes wide-eyed for a moment. 

“Yes, your majesty.” She says, and then we giggle again, laughing as we both slide into the backseat, letting Blaise drive us through the city.   
  


**18** **th** **August 1985 –**

“This is so crap.” Blaise says, strolling hand in hand with Pansy as we cross the threshold to Millicent’s house, raging music blaring through all of the rooms. It’s so crowded I can barely breathe, and there are so many people crammed together, bodies moving, and I feel quite dead, actually. We move through the crowd to the back, where Millicent, Daphne and Theo are sat by a stereo. 

“Why did you throw such a fucking bad party?” Blaise asks, and Millicent starts saying something but I’m not paying attention because I’m looking around the room, trying to find familiar faces. Alas, I can’t place anyone here. A guy in the corner is getting a blowjob and I feel quite jealous, apart from the fact that a girl is giving it. He looks stoned, and he keeps pushing further in, and she doesn’t look experienced at all. It’s pitiful, but I don’t move. I just avert my eyes and look somewhere else, look at  _ someone  _ else. There’s a blonde girl in the corner, dancing alone, probably stoned. When I turn my attention back to the group, Millicent is gone. Pansy talks to me for a little bit, but I’m not listening, and the music is ridiculous, and then Millicent returns and taps my shoulder.

“Your Mother called for you,” she says, handing me the phone. Her hand is covering the speaker and receiver. 

“Why?” I ask. 

Millicent shrugs. “Just called.” 

I take the phone and move out of the house, into the garden, pacing beside the pool, and then I lift the phone and hear my Mother’s voice. 

“Your Father wants you.” She says. 

“Why?” I ask, and I hear her sigh. 

“He just wants you, Draco. Don’t be difficult.” 

I hear rustling and I think she’s going to pass the phone to Father, so I hang up and walk into the main room again, finding Millicent and giving her the phone back. 

“What did she want?” Pansy asks. 

“She didn’t.” I say, and Pansy frowns. 

“Static?” Millicent asks, with a scarily knowing concern growing in her eyes. 

I nod dumbly. “Yeah. Static.” 

*** 

I’m walking through Millicent’s house because this party is terrible, and I can’t find anyone I know, and I’m opening a door and finding a guy pounding into a girl, and she’s moaning and egging him on and saying, “Harder, Jack, harder!” and then I’m closing the door and leaving and walking down the hall. I never realised Millicent’s house was this big, because I feel like I’ve walked this hallway before, but the doors look different. A guy comes up beside me and smirks. 

“Jeez, dude. Take one of these, relax a little.” He holds out a pill, and it doesn’t look like Valium or Librium, but I take it gratefully anyway, and put it on my tongue, and then he gives me a glass of water and I swallow it down. And then he smiles and me and moves in closer. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, lips brushing against my jaw. 

“What’s yours?” I counter. 

He chuckles. “Danny.” 

“Duly noted.” 

Danny moves in closer and his hand that is free of the water starts edging lower, until it’s pressed against my crotch, and then he’s rubbing my cock through my jeans and the friction is good but not enough, and I hear the music from downstairs, and I see purple evening light flowing in through the multiple windows. Danny removes his hand and grabs mine, pulling me along to one of the doors, opening it, slipping the two of us in. It’s empty. He puts the glass of water on a side table and comes up closer to me, and then he’s stripping me, and I feel whatever the pill was kicking in, and I laugh a little and push at his chest, but then he gets down on his knees and wraps his lips around my cock, and all of a sudden I realise I don’t want this. I try pushing him back, but he keeps going for a little while. Then he picks me up and moves me toward the bed, throwing me down, and two more guys enter, and my head feels heavy, and they all take off their clothes, and I’m shaking my head and murmuring “No, no, no” like a mantra, over and over, but they’re coming closer, and then I feel like I’m being torn apart, burned from the inside out, because Danny has shoved two fingers into me, and I think I’m screaming but then I realise it sounds like a girl outside is screaming, and my throat kills and I’m probably bleeding because I can feel something dripping, and my vision is slowly fading, but the last thing I see, before everything goes black, is the silhouette of Harry flinging the door open and pulling Danny back, and punching the other two, then punching Danny, and blood and punching, and Harry and my own naked body and...Harry. 

*** 

I feel like absolute shit. I try opening my eyes but something is stopping me, and I think it’s my head pounding, and then I remember the screams of the girl outside, and I wonder if she fell off of a balcony or something, and I remember the pill and the glass of water, and the guy’s hand against my cock, jeans creating friction, and then his hands stripping me, his fingers breaching me, blood dripping down my thighs and men laughing and Harry striding in, and perhaps I remember Harry carrying me out of there, but I’m probably delusional, because Harry has a girlfriend and we haven’t seen each other in almost a month. When I finally do open my eyes, I turn my head slightly toward a body that’s lying beside me. I recognise the abs, and I grimace for a second at why they’re not wearing a shirt, but then I hear their voice. “Shh, Draco, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” And I tilt my head ever so slightly, and I see Harry above me, stroking my hair back, murmuring soothing words to me. And perhaps it’s that one fateful day when we first fucked, and maybe I’ve imagined everything else, maybe it was the coke or the Librium...or even the Valium, but that wouldn’t have happened, because none of those drugs are strong enough, so I settle into Harry’s touch and pretend that he loves me, someone loves me, because I don’t think I can live anymore if he doesn’t.   
  


**19** **th** **August 1985 –**

“How long was I out?” I ask, to no one in particular once I seem to have regained consciousness. 

“Not long.” 

I sigh in frustration. “How long is ‘not long’ though?”

“Just...not long, I guess.” Harry shrugs, and he looks all innocent and perfect and... 

“Where am I?” I ask, though I know full well where I am. I just want to hear him say it. 

“My place.” He mutters. It’s been over a month, but this place looks completely the same, and I want to scream about it. I want reactions. I want  _ his  _ reactions. Because otherwise, we’ll all forget how to care.

“Why?” I ask, and he shrugs. 

“Thought it best.” 

“Who? You?” 

Harry shakes his head and stands up. “Pansy.” 

“Of course she would. Bitch.” I mutter, and he moves closer as if he thinks I’m talking to him, but I wave him away. He nods and leaves the room, and then I’m alone, tangled in his sheets, naked, left to think of the night before and...what they did. I stand up and wrap the thin milky sheet around my body, wincing when I stand because of the pain, moving into his open lounge area. “I want to talk about it.” I say. 

He’s making drinks. “Do you?” 

I make a grunt sound. “Fucking hell, yes! For once, just...just care!” 

Harry stops what he’s doing and moves toward me, glint of anger in his eyes. We sit on his sofa, and I wait for the outburst. But nothing comes. 

“Talk...” he says softly, and then he adjusts the sheet across my shoulders, sending a shiver through my body. 

“I don’t want to...” I say, giving in, and I expect him to smirk or smile or be a complete dickhead about it, but he doesn’t. 

“I...” he starts. 

“Have you taken anything today?” I ask, and he shakes his head instantly. “Haven’t...not since you left.” 

I raise my eyebrows, suddenly feeling more and more like the filthy one. “You haven’t done  _ any  _ drugs at all...for a month?” 

He nods. 

I don’t really know what to say, so I don’t say anything. 

“Why do we do it?” he finally says, eyes locking with mine, scrutinising me. 

“What?” 

He sighs. “The drugs...the parties, the drinking, the sex...all of it.” 

I shrug. “Because it’s fun?” 

“Not good enough.” He says, and I feel frustrated and inadequate. 

“We’re not really living are we?” he murmurs. 

“Hmm?” 

“Jesus, Draco, look at us! What are we...are we going to become our Fathers?” 

“You maybe...me, not so much.” I say, shrugging again. Shrugging seems to take the edge off. 

“I don’t want to do it anymore. Any of it.” 

“Even the sex?” I ask, smirking, and he scowls, but then he laughs a little. 

Then I’m laughing and soon enough we’re both cackling on his sofa, in the golden sunlight of mid-afternoon, bodies inching closer ever so slightly, breath mingling, and then we’re a hair’s breadth away. I feel like I can taste him, and then he leans forward, and I lean forward, and his lips meet mine and it’s...perfect. I think. I’m not too sure what perfect should mean, but this feels so new and soft and delicate, and Harry slips his tongue into my mouth and I accept it, moaning into his skin, and for a second I forget all about last night, and I feel free and...different.

Harry pulls back. “Maybe not the sex.” He smirks. 

I stroke his arm, and he avoids looking at me. 

“Why are you with that girl?” I ask. 

“Ginny?” 

“If that’s her name, then yeah, I guess.” 

“I told you...appearances to uphold.” 

I sigh and he sort of tries to catch it. It should probably be endearing. 

“But it’s making you unhappy. You’re not being you.” 

He scowls at me. “Oh, because you’re so out, aren’t you?” 

I move away a little. “I may not be out to my parents...but I’m out to Pansy, and I’m not dating girls to try and repress it.”

I think Harry might scowl or glare again, but then he begins to sniffle, and I realise that he’s sobbing. 

“Harry...” I say. He bats at me. 

“You’re right...Draco.” 

It doesn’t feel as good as I’d expected, and I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn’t. 

“I just want it all to stop.” He says, trying to reign the tears in, failing miserably. 

“I know.” I say, and I stroke his arm, and we sit on the sofa through the golden hours, in silence, holding each other and simply being there, without drugs, without sex, without it all.   
  


**28** **th** **September 1985 –**

“You don’t have to do this.” he says. 

“Yes, I do.” 

We’re in the car, on the way to a clinic somewhere in the pits of LA, because I flinch every time someone comes near me, and up until today, I hadn’t left the apartment in two weeks. I should have expected this to happen, really. But, I didn’t. He reaches across and touches my hand, softly 

“It’s going to be fine. I’ll be there the whole time,” he says, and I nod, but I don’t say anything, and then I turn the radio on but there’s nothing good playing, so I let it fade to white noise as we drive over a stretch of asphalt, and then I turn it off altogether. 

“I’m scared.” I say, and admitting it isn’t as bad as I thought. 

“I know.” He says, and I feel slightly better as we pull into the clinic’s parking lot. 

We get out, and he locks the car, and then we enter through the large front doors. There’s a soft looking lady sat at reception, and she asks my name when we reach the desk. 

“Draco Malfoy.” I say, then when she glances at him, “my boyfriend.” 

She nods and sends us through to a waiting room, and then it’s no time at all until a guy with a clipboard stands over the threshold and says, “Draco Malfoy.” He looks around for a moment, and then we stand up and walk towards him. He shakes my hand. “You must be the boyfriend?” the guy asks. 

“You can call me Harry,” he says, smiling, and my stomach starts to feel a little queasy. 

“Just this way,” the guy says, and then, “follow me.” We walk behind him, and enter an office, and it’s clinical and medical and I instantly hate it. 

“So, you’re in for therapy today, Draco?” he asks. I just nod, and Harry, who has sat down beside me, smiles and squeezes my hand. 

“Right...well, let’s get started.” the guy says. And we do.   
  


**30** **th** **September 1985 –**

I still think it was a mistake, and I tell Harry this often. I say, “It was a mistake, and I hope you know that.” And he nods and says he does, even though I don’t think he does. But it was a mistake I think I needed to make. I think everyone makes mistakes. 

“You look moody,” Harry says with a smirk, then, “do you need me to kiss you?” I laugh lightly and grab the newspaper from the table. 

I glance over the front page. There are pictures of my Mother with her new cat, and pictures of my Father with his new girlfriend. Figures. There’s also pictures of Harry’s parents, kissing on a veranda somewhere in LA, looking forever in love. But below that, is a picture of the two of us. We’re kissing, too, and the headline reads:  _ POTTER AND MALFOY IN LOVING RELATIONSHIP. _

__ Harry smirks at me and rips the paper from my hands, opening it to the suggested page and beginning to read. 

_ “Mr Harry Potter,”  _ he reads,  _ “and Mr Draco Malfoy, both respected young boys, holding up two of the finest fortune families in LA, have been spotted recently in many locations, cosying up to one another, holding hands, and at times, kissing. Mr Potter, recently interviewed for the TIMES, has digressed that he is “in a loving relationship with Draco,” and is dedicated solely to the man. Representatives for both Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter have refused to comment, though Mr Potter’s father, the highly respected James Potter, has publicly paid his “best respects to my son and who I hope will one day be my son in law.” Mr Malfoy’s father, Lucius Malfoy, has denied all requests for interview. However, representatives for well-frequented bar and night-club, the CRESCENT, have mentioned that the four dined for luncheon simply three months ago. Since Mr Potter’s confession, many other A-List celebrities throughout LA have admitted to being gay, most notably, son of Hollywood director, Blaise Zabini.”  _

Harry stops reading and smirks at me when I mutter, “I fucking knew it.” 

“So, you happy?” he asks, and I look at him, incredulous. 

“You’re a fucking idiot.” I say after a minute, smiling. I move toward Harry and lean down, kissing him, and then he kisses me back, and he stops when I tell him to stop, and he goes and makes lunch, and we sit in his crappy art studio apartment, eating cheap food and laughing at each other, just enjoying each other’s company, and I think that this was most-definitely the best mistake I ever made, one I would make over and over again, because it lead me to this. And it would be cliché to say it ‘lead me to him’ but it definitely did something, and I guess that’s worth some credit. 


End file.
